


WiP Amnesty: Hawaii Five-0

by MontanaHarper



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Community: wip_amnesty, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/MontanaHarper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since H50 and I have broken up, there's no way I'm going to finish any of these in-progress things, so I figured I'd do another unofficial WiP Amnesty collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ( the one where Rachel cares enough to meddle )

Rachel wasn't sure what she'd been expecting when Commander McGarrett opened the door, but it was interesting to watch his body language go from one sort of "on alert" to another when he saw it was her.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said quickly.

He shook his head, "C'mon in. Danny and Grace aren't here, though. I think he was planning to take her to the zoo."

As she stepped inside and let him shut the door behind her, Rachel glanced around, trying to take in her surroundings without appearing to do so; some wife-of-a-cop habits were harder to break than others. The main room was decorated more for comfort than for visual elegance, and it looked warm and lived-in.

"I know." She glanced down for a moment, then steeled herself to meet his gaze. "I came to speak to you," she said. "About Daniel."

She'd rehearsed this conversation dozens of times, thinking and rethinking and eventually _over_ thinking the whole thing, but it wasn't going to be easy. And there was a small—very, very small, if she was any judge—possibility that she'd read the situation wrong.

His expression shifted faintly, becoming something even more neutral. "No offense, but it's really not my place—"

"This has nothing to do with myself and Daniel," she interrupted, then felt the need to amend the statement: "Well, almost nothing."

There wasn't a flicker of change in the implacable way he was looking at her, and as she quashed the urge to prattle on, to fill the silence, she had a flash of insight into their working partnership. It made a ridiculous sort of sense: of course there'd not be anything as simple as 'good cop/bad cop' where Daniel was involved, though she doubted that 'taciturn cop/voluble cop' would catch on, not least because it was hardly the sort of thing that tripped off the tongue.

She shook her head slightly, irritated at herself and at the nervous derailment of her thoughts. "Please, Commander, I realise the situation is awkward, but I wouldn't have come if I didn't feel it was important."

He regarded her silently for another moment, then nodded. "It's cooler out back," he said. "We can have a beer and talk."

Something very akin to relief flooded through her and she smiled. "Thank you."

"You go on out." He gestured toward a door at the back of the house. "I'll just grab the beers."

The patio was cool, shaded by the deck above. Rachel settled into one of the wicker chairs and tried to relax.


	2. ( the one with the pizza delivery porn )

Danny parks his car on the street and snags the pizza box from the front seat. The wave of humid heat that slams into him as soon as he opens the car door is reason number 43 on his mental list of _Why I Hate Hawaii_. He glances at the order ticket taped to the lid of the box and shakes his head. Reason 68: ham and pineapple pizza. It's an abomination.

The tanned, shirtless guy who opens the door, on the other hand, is a perfect example of number 5 on Danny's other, and much shorter, list of _Why Hawaii Doesn't Totally Suck_ : the gorgeous scenery. He's tall, with close-cropped dark hair that looks shower-damp, broad shoulders, and a six-pack you could bounce a quarter off.

"You ordered a pizza?" It's one of the dumber things Danny has ever heard come out of his own mouth, but the guy just pats the back pocket of his jeans—jeans that Danny can't help but notice are slung pretty low on his hips, the top button undone like he just pulled them on when he heard the knock at the door—and a little puzzled crease appears on his forehead.

"C'mon in," he says. "Let me get my wallet."

Danny steps in and closes the door behind him, shutting the worst of the heat out, and—once a cop, always a cop—gives the room a cursory once-over. Mostly, though, he watches the guy climb the stairs, bare feet silent on the hardwood and worn denim molding with each step to the curve of what is, in Danny's expert opinion, one hell of a gorgeous ass.

An ass, in fact, that Danny can all too easily imagine under his palms as he bends its owner over the arm of a nearby recliner and fucks him into next week. Danny's dick is one hundred percent behind this idea, and he reaches down to surreptitiously adjust himself under cover of the pizza box. Of course, because it's the most awkward time _ever_ , that's when tall, dark, and half-naked pads back down the stairs, wallet in hand.

"How much do I owe you?" he asks, but before Danny can even check the ticket and respond, he's flipped the wallet open and is frowning into it. "Crap. I, uh. I don't have any cash." He looks up at Danny, his expression somewhere between sheepish and hopeful. "You take plastic?"

For a second Danny's so floored he can't even react. Then, he says, "Do I—what? Do I _take plastic_? What do I look like, an ATM?" The guy opens his mouth to say something, but Danny interrupts. "No, no checks, either. Don't even ask."

Wordlessly, the guy closes his wallet and slides it into his back pocket. The movement pushes his jeans even lower, to the point where Danny can clearly see that he's commando, the golden tan of his stomach giving way to pale skin and just a hint of dark hair. Danny drags his attention back to the guy's face, but he's obviously not quick enough because his gaze meets hazel eyes that are narrowed in speculation.

"Maybe," the guy says, flashing a quick smile that's equal parts flirtatious and predatory, "we can come to some other, mutually agreeable, arrangement?"

Danny takes a step back as the guy takes a step forward, and it's like being stalked by some kind of sleek jungle cat. He feeling the adrenaline—or maybe it's endorphins—spike through his system, fight-or-flight response warring with arousal. He's embarrassed to find that he's clutching the pizza in front of himself like some kind of virginal bride with the bedcovers on her wedding night; he quickly sets the box aside, onto a little end table that's nearly overflowing with magazines and newspapers.

The guy finishes closing the distance between them, looming over Danny in a way that's surprisingly hot. One hand against the door beside Danny's head, he leans forward slowly. The smell of earthy spices and citrus shampoo washes over Danny as the guy breathes into his ear, "I could suck your cock."

Danny takes a shaky breath and slides his hands over the warm, smooth skin of the guy's back and then down, to cup that perfect ass. Going for broke, he says, "Are you kidding me? That's an extra-large deluxe ham and pineapple. Thirty bucks plus tax and tip. A blowjob's got a street value of, what, fifteen bucks, tops."

The huff of silent laughter against his ear sends a shiver through him and he closes his eyes reflexively. "Tax is already figured into that thirty bucks, Jersey boy." A pause. "What do you want, Danny? Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

The fantasy evaporates like morning mist, but Danny can't even bring himself to care. He turns his head and presses open-mouthed kisses along the freshly shaved line of Steve's jaw, nipping gently just to hear the catch in Steve's breath.

"You leave a mark, you get to explain it tomorrow at work," Steve warns, but there's no force behind the words and Danny nips a little harder just because he can. Another shuddering inhale, and then Steve, voice rough and low, says, "So what's the plan here? Am I supposed to be doing the seducing, or are you the one taking advantage of my wide-eyed innocence?"

What starts out as a laugh turns into an urgent, breathy noise as Steve slides the heel of his hand down the length of Danny's cock, the pressure making up for the lack of skin to skin contact. "No offense, babe, but I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed," Danny manages.

Steve crowds him back against the door, fingers deft on Danny's belt and zipper. "Then tell me, Danny. Tell me what you want. Anything."

It's just about enough to short out Danny's brain, Steve offering himself up like that. For a second he's lost in all the possibilities—holy fuck, the _possibilities_ —and then Steve's hand slides past the elastic of his boxers and he can feel the flex of muscles under his palms. He tightens his grip, stops Steve from sliding to his knees, because as much as he loves the _slick-wet-hot_ of Steve's mouth, that's not what he wants right now.


	3. Star Sex Nine ( aka the one with the accidental, mistaken-identity phone sex )

It was past midnight by the time Steve got Agent Kaye settled in at Kono's place—not the ideal solution, and about as cramped as a college dorm room, but the best and, more importantly, the _safest_ he could come up with on short notice—and was finally headed home, rain drumming a steady, soothing rhythm on the cab of the truck.

He'd been on the road about ten minutes when, just past the hairpin turn on the Pali Highway, he spotted a beat-up old Toyota station wagon in the scenic turn-out with its emergency flashers going and its hood propped open. He pulled off and parked at right angles to the Toyota, letting his headlights illuminate the guy who was peering into the engine compartment with a flashlight, shoulders hunched against the downpour.

The guy swept dripping hair from his face with a practiced gesture that said 'surfer' to Steve, then shaded his eyes from the glare of the truck's lights. No telling how long he'd been out there; his white tank was pretty much transparent and his board shorts clung to every plane and curve, but in this weather that could happen in a matter of minutes.

Steve braced himself for being similarly drenched and slid out of the truck. "Need a hand?" he called out.

"Sure." The guy grinned wryly. "Hell if I know what's wrong with her, though."

As Steve got close enough to check out the engine himself, he realized the guy was even bigger than he'd originally thought, six three at least and shoulders like a linebacker. Ordinarily that, coupled with the circumstances—lonely road, late at night, ostensibly broken-down vehicle—would be enough to make him wary, but the guy exuded a kind of friendly mellowness that reminded Steve of some of his more perennially stoned high-school classmates. Or maybe a puppy.

"What's she doing?" Still, he made a mental note of the car's license plate number, just in case.

"Won't start. She was fine earlier, and then I pulled off to make a phone call and now—" The guy shrugged.

Steve nodded along with the explanation, trying to ignore the rivulets of rain streaming from his hair down the back of his neck. "You mind if I try her?" he asked, moving to the driver's door when the guy made a 'be my guest' gesture. "I'm Steve, by the way."

"Jason."

Steve filed the name away with the plate number.

After checking the e-brake and wiggling the stick to make sure the car was in neutral, he turned the key. The engine spluttered but didn't catch. Not the battery or the starter, then. Anything else was going to be a little more complicated.

"Let me get my tools."

Ten minutes later Steve had the spark plug wires labeled and was pulling the distributor cap off. Jason came and stood by his side—a little closer than was strictly necessary, Steve thought, but he still wasn't getting even a vaguely menacing vibe off the guy, so he pushed the thought to the side. It was probably just post-adrenaline edginess.

Steve sprayed the inside of the distributor cap with carburetor cleaner and dried it carefully before replacing it, then reattached the battery cables. "Try it now," he said, nodding toward the driver's seat.

The engine started on the first try. Steve lifted the hood to release the prop, tucking it away with a little snap, then he let the hood drop and pushed down on it gently to make sure it had latched. Jason was already gathering Steve's tools up for him, and walking them over to the truck.

When everything was stowed behind the back seats and Steve had given up on trying to get the rest of the grease off his hands with the rain-soaked rag, Jason gave him a grin. "Mahalo." He hesitated for a second, like he was sizing Steve up, or maybe coming to a decision, and then he said, "Anything I can help _you_ with, brah...?"

If there had been any doubt in Steve's mind about what that meant, it was completely swept away by the unmistakably flirtatious grin Jason flashed at him. And Steve must have really been tired or...something...because for half a second he actually considered it, considered taking a random—though indisputably hot—guy up on an offer of semi-public sex. His dick was behind the idea one hundred and ten percent, but Steve overruled it; he could feel the adrenaline crash looming on the horizon and the smart thing to do was to go home and get some sleep.

"I'm flattered, man," Steve said with a small, regretful head-shake, "but I don't think so."

Jason just shrugged. "Too bad," he said, not bothering to hide the fact that he was still checking Steve out. "You got a phone I can use?" At Steve's raised eyebrow, he grinned a little wider. "My battery's dead. No sense driving across the island if my boy's not home."

The call took less than a minute and Steve could tell the outcome even before Jason said, "Guess it's not my night," with a smile that had turned wry again. His fingers brushed Steve's and held a little longer than necessary as he handed the phone back, then he backed away. "Aloha," he called, before turning and jogging to his car.

Steve was barely settled back inside the cab of his truck—half-hard from Jason's offer, dripping second-hand rain on the seat, and wishing he'd remembered to replace the towels he usually kept there—when his phone rang. The number wasn't one he recognized and the Caller ID was coming up 'Unknown.' He hesitated for a second, and then answered. "Hello?"

"... Jason, sorry … the shower … heard it … hung up." The staccato drumming of rain on steel made it hard to hear what the guy was saying; Steve pushed and held the volume button until it was as loud as it would go, peering out the windshield through the rain to see if Jason's Toyota was still there. "... betting I know what you called for, though. Pretty sure it's my turn, too."

Steve was just opening his mouth to say "hang on," when he realized that he recognized the voice, even tinny and distorted by the cellphone speaker and nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain.

"First, I am going to make you come," Danny was saying. "I am going to make you come _so hard_ , Jay, that you're gonna think it's the Fourth of July. Fireworks, is what I'm saying. My mouth, your cock, _fireworks_."

The words hit Steve like a sucker-punch, leaving him dazed and gasping and with so many thoughts buzzing around in his head that he wasn't sure where to even start sorting them out. For a second he just sat there, stunned and half wondering if maybe he was dreaming, until Danny's voice, low and warm and sex-rough, cut through the chaos.

"Then, when you're still boneless and unstrung," he was saying, the words punctuated by the faintest suggestion of breathless pauses, "I'm gonna spread you out on the bed and I'm gonna fuck that gorgeous ass, slow and lazy and sweet, until you're out of your head with how good it feels."

 

Images unspooled

 

"You with me, babe?" And fuck but Steve wanted to be, wanted to be right there with Danny, letting Danny match actions to words. "I'm going to fuck you until you're hard again, until you come apart, tight and hot and beautiful, on my cock. I'm going to fuck you until we're both completely wrecked, Jay."

It was like a bucket of ice water to the face, that reminder that Danny thought he was talking to someone else, and Steve jerked the phone away from his ear. It slipped from wet, numb fingers and bounced off the seat, ending up down under the brake pedal.

 _Jesus fucking Christ, McGarrett, get a grip._

He fished the phone up off the floor, making sure the call was disconnected. He could only hope that Danny wouldn't call back.

~ | ~ | ~

  
Steve showed up at HQ early the next morning, after a restless night during which he'd convinced himself first that the whole episode had been some kind of fever dream and then, once his phone had provided irrefutable evidence in the form of last night's call log, that he'd probably been mistaken about the voice on the other end being Danny's. Alone in the building, he used his computer to do a reverse look-up of the number from his phone.

 _Williams, Daniel_

Still half hoping that there was an explanation other than the obvious, he ran Jason's plates and then did a quick and dirty background check on him. Clean.


	4. ( the one with the gay bar )

When Danny finally finds Steve, it's in the dim corridor that leads from the dance floor to the johns, and Steve's leaning against the fire door—Danny's positive that's against the law, blocking a fire exit like that, he ought to write Steve a ticket or maybe even arrest him just to make a point. Steve's just leaning there like nothing's going on, nothing's unusual, while some guy on his knees swallows Steve's dick like a pro and Steve's hand curls around the back of the guy's head, fingers threaded through strands of sun-bleached hair, and Danny stands frozen to the spot about ten feet away.

Distantly, Danny hears Chin's voice, but even that isn't enough to snap him totally out of it. "Yeah, yeah," he says into his phone, "you were right, he's here, I found him. We'll be there in ten."

He has to take his eyes off Steve for a second to hang up, and when he looks back, Steve's watching him, eyes half-lidded and lower lip caught between his teeth, looking like an Active Duty porn shoot only a million times hotter, and Danny does not need this, not one little bit. He doesn't need Stephen fucking McGarrett invading his life and his dreams any more than he already has, and he sure as hell doesn't need his jerk-off fantasies fuelled by reality, by _actual knowledge_ of what Steve looks like when he's getting blown (all languid sensuality on the surface and restless energy underneath, intense and beautiful and fucking _debauched_ , his traitorous brain files away).

Danny should turn around, should walk away. Steve knows he's here, can probably guess that whatever Danny wants is important, and so Danny should just walk away and let Steve catch up with him when he's...when they're...done, finished, whatever. He doesn't, though, because Steve hasn't looked away yet, hasn't looked guilty or embarrassed, and it really shouldn't surprise Danny that he and Steve are still locked together in the same freakish orbit as always, circling each other, intimate but not, flirting but not.

And maybe Danny's getting a little tired of of 'but not' at this point, but he can't lay it all at Steve's door; he's been just as invested in keeping to the status quo, in not crossing the intangible lines they've drawn by mutual unspoken agreement. That part of the map is uncharted territory for him, "here there be dragons" or whatever, and sometimes Danny feels like he's not only stumbling around without a compass, but he's fucking blindfolded, too, and it's more than a little frightening. So yeah, Danny'll cop to his part in their endless—and endlessly frustrating—dance.

But right now Danny's off balance. Right now Steve's watching him, gaze locked with Danny's, tongue darting out to wet parted lips, and Danny can _see_ the change, can see the exact second when Steve hits the point of no return, knows him well enough to read the subtle tension that runs through his body with only the faintest of tremors to give it away. Then Steve's gasping, eyes fluttering shut at the last second, and Danny can breathe again, can feel the pound of his heart in his chest and a dizzying spin like he's freefalling, like he's sailed right past the point of no return along with Steve. The feeling is heady and exhilarating and absolutely fucking terrifying, and Danny does the only thing he can think of: he bluffs.

Four steps and he's right at Steve's side, leaning into his space to speak directly in his ear so he doesn't have to shout to make himself heard over the bone-jarring volume of the club's music. "When you're done here, Casanova, we've got a break in the case," he says. "Just, you know, when you're done. No rush or anything."

He reaches out the few inches between them and slides Steve's phone—which had buzzed, abandoned, across Steve's desk when Chin had tried to call him to let him know about the informant's hot tip—into Steve's shirt pocket. Steve catches him by the wrist before he can pull his hand back, grip firm but gentle, the skin-to-skin contact not doing anything to slow Danny's racing pulse, and when Danny looks up to meet Steve's gaze he finds more than just the expected flush of arousal and blown pupils.

Steve's jaw is tense, his expression guarded. Out of the corner of his eye, Danny sees the blond come to his feet and back away from them, probably anticipating an all-out jealous brawl, and without even really thinking about it Danny shifts to put himself between Steve and the corridor leading to the rest of the club, blocking from view Steve's unbuttoned khakis and still half-hard dick. Okay, so maybe he'll grant the kid the jealous part, Danny reluctantly admits, but he and Steve haven't come to blows since the early days of their partnership, and Danny can't imagine that after everything else they've argued about, _this_ would be the catalyst for their second fistfight.


	5. ( the one with Rachel )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found this in a notebook the other day. No clue where I was going with it.

Rachel was warm and familiar as he wrapped his arms around her, pressed his face into the soft silk of her hair and breathed her in. For a second it was as if the last couple of years hadn’t happened and then Rachel’s phone rang, breaking the spell.

She pulled away from him — not eagerly, but not quite reluctantly either — and lifted the receiver from its cradle.


End file.
